My Parents dump their misery onto me

How to put down a boundary without cruelty and an essay about writing letters

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Dear Philippa,

Dear Philippa, I feel overwhelmed by my family. For as long as I can remember their problems have dwarfed everything.

Both my parents have unresolved childhood trauma and are emotionally volatile in their own ways. My childhood was spent walking on eggshells and trying to predict what would trigger my Dad’s regular explosive fits of rage and inevitably have to manage my Mum’s emotional breakdown after he had stormed out and left. I grew up terrified that my Dad would harm my Mum, or worse and still do.

They frequently involved me in their arguments between each other and between them and other relatives and continue to do so, expecting me to fix their problems.

Whenever I see my Mum without my Dad, she emotionally offloads on me about everything that is wrong with her life, often breaking down in tears and sharing details about her childhood and relationship with my Dad which makes me feel uncomfortable. Knowing she has no one else to talk to, and that she is essentially in an abusive marriage, I feel obliged to be a shoulder to cry on but it is distressing, I’m not a therapist and don’t want to risk embroiling myself in their marital issues. I often feel overwhelmed and breakdown myself when she has left, suffering panic attacks and night terrors when I become so anxious and catastrophise about how they could hurt one another if things escalate.

I’ve suggested numerous times that my Mum stay with me if things are bad, and have suggested she get help either through domestic abuse charities or a counsellor for herself. I myself have used therapy to deal with my own issues and have tried explaining how helpful it can be but she has never attempted to access help.

I dread seeing them and feel so emotionally burnt out that I have no bandwidth for stress in my own life. I want to spend any spare time on my own and often avoid social plans. I want to escape and run away but know that isn’t an option.

My partner is very supportive and tells me that it’s not a healthy dynamic and that I should be honest with them about needing boundaries, suggesting they seek professional help to deal with their issues.

I’m worried this will be perceived as a cold response from me when they’ve always relied on me emotionally.

Is it unfair to tell my parents I can’t solve their problems and carry their emotional burdens anymore? And if not, how do I say it without it sounding cruel?

In desperation,

The Answer

You are not being unfair. What you are describing is not a daughter supporting her parents through a rough patch. It is a long-term pattern in which your emotional resources have been used to prop up a system that causes harm. I’m with your partner on this one.

Your parents are not asking you for support in the usual sense. They are continuing a dynamic in which you carry what they cannot or will not. In other words they are dumping their pain onto you. It is understandable that you feel burnt out.

You have already tried suggesting solutions, these have been met with dismissal or avoidance. The next step is not to try harder. It is to step back and make the limits of what you can carry clear.

Spoken conversations with emotionally volatile people can be distorted in memory, especially when the message is hard to hear. If you were to have a letter to give you mum when you talk to her about your boundary, it gives your mother something to return to. It allows her to take in your words at her own pace. It reduces the chances of escalation.

Below is a version of the letter you might give her, rewrite it in your own words.

Dear Mum,

I love you. I always have, and I always will. I know things have been difficult and that you are in pain. I don’t want you to feel alone in that. At the same time, I need to be honest about how things have been affecting me.

When we spend time together and you share in detail how unhappy you are, especially about your relationship with Dad, I often leave feeling overwhelmed, anxious and sometimes physically unwell. I’ve had panic attacks and sleepless nights. I’ve started withdrawing from other people and parts of my life because I feel I have no energy left.

I know you need someone to talk to. But I am not the right person for that. I am your daughter, not your therapist. I can’t carry your pain for you. I have encouraged you to speak to a professional because I believe it could help you in a way that I cannot. I hope you will consider it, but I also accept that it’s your choice.

I am still here. I still want a relationship with you. But I need it to be a relationship that doesn’t come at the cost of my wellbeing. That means that from now on, I am asking you not to talk to me about your relationship with Dad or to offload in a way that leaves me feeling responsible or frightened. I want our time together to be about connection, not crisis.

Please know this boundary comes from a place of care. I want to be able to see you and speak to you without feeling dread. I want our relationship to grow into something more equal and respectful of both our needs.

With love…

Such a letter is not a rejection. It is a rebalancing. It names the problem without blaming. It sets a limit without cutting off. It gives your mother a clear message that she can either respect or resist. Either way, you will have done what is within your control.

And maybe a letter for your Dad too:

Dear Dad,

I’ve been thinking for some time about how things have felt in our relationship, and I need to be honest with you.

Growing up, I often felt I had to be alert to your mood and manage the atmosphere in the house. When you and Mum argued, I would try to calm things down or pick up the pieces afterwards. That pattern hasn’t really changed. Even now, I’m often drawn into tensions between you, or between you and other family members, and expected to help sort things out.

This has had a real effect on me. I’ve found myself feeling anxious, having panic attacks, and withdrawing from other parts of my life because I feel emotionally exhausted. I’ve reached a point where I need to protect my own health and wellbeing.

That means I need to step back from being involved in any conflict between you and Mum, or anyone else in the family. I can’t be the go-between. I can’t be the person who tries to fix things. I’m asking that we don’t have conversations where I’m placed in that role.

I care about you, and I’m not shutting you out. I want a relationship with you that isn’t based on managing crises or being caught in the middle. I’m not asking anything dramatic from you just that we start speaking to each other as father and daughter, not as part of a long-running family drama.

This is difficult to say, and I don’t expect it to be easy to hear. But it’s important, and I hope it will lead to something better for both of us.

With love …

Make any adjustments you need to, to fit your situation better and make it yours. Setting boundaries with people we love is one of the hardest emotional tasks we face, especially when we’ve been cast in the role of emotional caretaker since childhood. But writing a letter like this is not an act of rejection; it is an act of care, for yourself and for the relationship. You’re offering a path forward that protects your wellbeing while still holding space for connection. Letter writing can be a powerful way to find your voice and bring clarity to situations that feel overwhelming, not just in this case, but more broadly.

Best wishes, Philippa

Therapeutic Letter Writing, An Essay

Writing letters can be a deeply therapeutic act. Whether they are sent or never leave the writer’s hands, the process of composing a letter allows people to express difficult emotions, set personal boundaries, and clarify what they want from their relationships. The act of writing can bring emotional and even physical benefits.

Writing about emotional experiences for just fifteen to twenty minutes a day, over several days, has been linked to reduced doctor visits, lower blood pressure, better immune function, and improved mood. What’s significant here is not just that people feel better emotionally after writing, but that the physical body seems to benefit from the structured processing of distress.

One of the reasons writing is so effective is that it helps externalise difficult emotions. When we write something down, we are shifting it out of the swirl of internal experience and giving it form. This allows the brain’s reasoning centres to engage more fully. Writing can calm the emotional intensity of the amygdala by activating the prefrontal cortex. That shift from raw emotion to structured reflection helps people move through feelings like grief, anger, or confusion.

Letters are especially powerful when they give voice to things that haven’t been said aloud. For some, this results in catharsis or emotional release. There’s also a symbolic dimension to the act of writing. People sometimes choose to destroy or burn the letters once they’re written, which reinforces the idea of letting go or moving on. Others keep the letter but never send it. Either way, the letter has done its work.

I recommend writing “venting” letters, to say exactly what you feel without censoring yourself, and with no intention of sending it. The idea is to allow full honesty without the complications of someone else’s reaction. There is healing in being uncensored, especially for people who have learned to edit themselves to keep the peace.

Writing a letter can help people to find their voice, process emotion, and gain insight. You can destroy the letters when they are ready, as a way of completing the emotional process. Writing the letter, then burning or discarding it, can become a meaningful part of recovery.

You might want to write to someone who has died, or to someone you’ve lost contact with, or even to a version of yourself from the past. You could start with “I’m writing because I could never say this out loud.” From there, the words will begin to flow. The point isn’t to polish or impress, but to express what’s true and unresolved.

Other letters, however, are meant to be sent. These are not emotional offloads, but boundary-setting communications. Like the ones I suggest in the problem and answer above. They clarify what the writer needs from a relationship and what they can no longer accept. The tone needs to be calm and assertive, not blaming or accusatory. These letters aim to preserve a relationship by shifting the terms of engagement, not ending it. When I was pregnant and not married, my poor old fashioned parents were horrified, and said, what I felt to be terrible things. This was a much tried for, much wanted baby they were wishing away and their attitude upset me so much that I found I could not articulate what I wanted to say calmly or clearly. so I wrote a letter. I don’t have a copy of it now, but I put down a boundary, my baby was not regrettable and they were not to say that it was in my presence and I think I said something about wanting a good relationship with them, and after some huffing and puffing on their part, that is what happened. That letter “worked”. It helped reset the tone of our relationship. It opened the door to something better.

There are many ways these letters can look. A client in therapy might write to a partner or family member to explain what they need in order to feel respected or emotionally safe. A letter like this does not demand obedience but invites a new kind of dialogue. It gives the other person a chance to respond with understanding, rather than defensiveness. It gives the recipient of the letter time to digest it after the first feelings of defensiveness die down. In face to face dialogue, defensiveness has a habit of blocking what needs to be heard.

What is working in all of these cases are several psychological mechanisms. First is cognitive reappraisal. The process of reframing a situation through writing, which makes it feel less overwhelming. Second is symbolic ritual. Whether someone destroys or sends the letter, the act of writing is a ritual that marks change. Third is narrative coherence. Emotional distress often feels chaotic, inchoate. Writing allows us to put it into a story, and stories help us understand ourselves.

Studies by a psychologist called James Pennebaker’s found that writing about trauma not only improved psychological well-being, but also led to physical improvements like enhanced immune response. Later studies explored how writing can be used as an extension of therapy. In one qualitative study, clients who supplemented therapy with written letters to themselves or others reported deeper reflection and greater healing. Narrative therapists have used unsent letters as a way to help people shift the story they tell about themselves, moving from stuckness to possibility.

This is therapy you can do on yourself with no therapist is required. Begin by choosing the kind of letter you want to write. Is it something private, just for yourself? Or is it something you might send? Clarify your intention: do you want to vent, to forgive, to set limits, to make a request? You don’t need to write neatly or correctly. Stream-of-consciousness-type writing can be the most honest. Use prompts if you need help starting, like “What do I wish I could say?” or “What do I need in this relationship that I’m not getting?” or “What am I ready to release?”

When the letter is finished, take time to decide what to do with it. You might keep it, revise it, or destroy it. If it’s a boundary letter, you might choose to send it, maybe after a pause and some editing. There is no guaranteed outcome for sending the boundary type letter, but sometimes, like in my case, it can improve relationships.

Writing letters is a simple but powerful act. It helps us name feelings that were previously only felt. It allows us to create meaning out of difficult experiences. It gives us a way to reclaim agency when we’ve felt powerless. And it can help us change the shape of our relationships with ourselves, and with others.

Unsent letters allow us to process privately, to let go of the past, and to find emotional release. Letters that are sent can clarify our needs and establish new terms of engagement. Both kinds are tools for healing. Both require nothing more than a pen, some paper, and a willingness to begin.

Any many, many people over the years, have said that the very act of writing an email to me began their healing process.

Email your problems to AskPhilippa@Yahoo.com subject to my Terms and Conditions